


Definition

by stereokem



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexuality Spectrum, Definitions, Domesticity, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Humor, Identity, Labels, M/M, Queerplatonic Relationships, Romantic Friendship, Sexuality, Spectrum of Sexuality, friendship fluff, romantic orientation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22545010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: John doesn’t know what to call them, so he does a little research. Five times John worries about how to define his relationship with Sherlock, and one time he doesn’t give a flying f*ck.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 262





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not meant to downplay the amount of queerbaiting in the show (which was pretty horrendous) or to shy away from overt homosexuality. This, rather, is an exploration of Sherlock and John as characters. I also think that this is a direction that the show could have taken if the showrunners were more tactful, more insightful, and cared more about the characters. I find it weird that homosocial relationships and suggestions are such a hot thing among male (and female) celebrities, but very few forms of popular media address it. We are always asking if there is a bromance going on between Celebrity X and Celebrity Y, but most shows/movies shy away from exploring non-sexual romantic relationships. 
> 
> Also, though I have chosen to paint them as having a queerplatonic/romantic friendship, there are no face-to-face declarations of love in this fic because, in this story, they just aren’t ready for it.
> 
> Not beta'd. The chapters/parts will come out every few days.

“We’re not a couple,” John said. Found himself saying. Repeatedly. Weekly. On a case-by-case basis. To several people more than once. _We are not a couple._ It didn’t matter how or how many times he said it, people just seemed not to get it. Even his slew of girlfriends (who, though their association was short-lived, usually had ample and earnest example of his heterosexual inclinations) exited the relationship with the accusation, almost admonition: _Why would you need me when you’ve already got such a great boyfriend?_

It bothered John in a way he couldn’t explain. Shouldn’t have to explain? It was annoying as all hell to be constantly and consistently misinterpreted—almost wilfully, as in the case of Mrs. Hudson, bless her. John was a relatively easy-going bloke (a quality which made living with Sherlock at all possible), and there were times when he knew it was a lost cause and hurting very little to let people carry on with their assumptions. A part of him gets it, he really does: what he has with Sherlock is . . . intense. Unpredictable. Devoted. In short, it has been the most important relationship of John’s life, and it continues to be so. Sherlock surprises, consternates, delights, and knows John in ways that (as he has come to suspect and accept) a potential romantic partner may never do.

So, maybe they are a couple of sorts. But John isn’t gay (much as that might make things easier), and neither (he thinks) is Sherlock, and they aren’t . . . well, _gay together._ Not the way people think of. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It just isn’t them.

And there are only so many times that a man, even as patient a man as John Watson, can allow himself to be misidentified without wanting to do something about it.

Which is how, sometime later in the month of February, after having been assaulted with Valentines’ well-wishes and snide remarks from much of New Scotland Yard on a case earlier in the month, Sherlock came into the kitchen holding John’s laptop aloft, his eyebrow raised.

“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” he asked. His tone was somewhat bored, but it usually was at this time of morning, on Sundays when there wasn’t a case on.

John blinked. “Is that my laptop?” It was a stupid question.

Sherlock tore his eyes from the screen to give John a look that clearly reciprocated the sentiment, and then asked, “Your search history. Am I to expect a declaration of undying devotion in the near future?”

John set down his mug of tea, considering. He hardly got angry any longer at Sherlock commandeering his laptop— boundaries were something that Sherlock was still working on and, besides, there was little that John could hide from Sherlock at any rate. Sherlock could read him like anything, and did so regularly and with a gusto that could only be explained by fondness, even if the results were sometimes (or often) irritating. He was so used to Sherlock being inside his head that it didn’t occur to him to delete his browsing history after his search.

Sherlock swept further into the kitchen, his blue silk dressing gown fluttering around him, before settling into the chair opposite John and reading aloud, “’More than best friends’? ‘Nonsexual partnership? ‘Intense male friendship’?”

John grimaced. “I didn’t really know what I was looking for.” He was aware, on a peripheral level, that there was a whole culture of terminology that he was unfamiliar with. He just wasn’t sure where to start.

As if he had no real business on it but to make a point, Sherlock closed the laptop, tapping its lid with one finger. “What brought this on? Are you having a crisis of identity?”

The tone of the question was gentler than John had expected, and when he looked into Sherlock’s face, there was a genuine and un-snide curiosity there.

“No, I’m just— I’m just tired of people making _assumptions_. There has to be a way to explain . . . ” he gestured between them, “ _this_ that people can understand.”

Sherlock was quiet, considering. “It’s never bothered you before.”

John laughed, an incredulous bark. “ _Yes_ , it has, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . I don’t like people telling me what I am or am not. Or what you are, for that matter. It’s aggravating.”

“So, what? Your goal is to find a term that explains away,” he mimicked John’s earlier gesticulation, “ _this_?”

“I thought I’d at least try,” John said. He paused. “Does that bother you?”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, looking lazy and lofty. “Frankly, I don’t care what people think. You know that.” He studied John for a moment before continuing. “But, if it bothers _you_ , I won’t stop you from trying, and will give an opinion on whatever you come up with, if requested.”

John nodded, something like relief flooding him. “Great.” And then, because he could think of little else to say and desperately wanted to change the subject. “Toast?”

Sherlock picked up the paper that John had discarded earlier and opened it. “I used the marmalade for an experiment, but I think we still have jam.”


	2. II

So, John went about his research and exploration. And, jesus, did he unearth a whole world of terminology he never knew existed.

His initial Google searches, ham-handed though they were, lead him to websites that he (now with the full knowledge of Sherlock’s scrutiny, and having been exonerated from explanation) clicked through with interest and without hesitation. Sometimes it led him to things that were . . . well, just not his bag; but, for the most part, it was extremely informative.

John was unsurprised to learn that his own knowledge of anything to do with non-heteronormative sex or relationships was relatively shallow. He was, however, surprised at the sheer breadth of terms people applied to themselves, their sexualities, their gender identities, and their relationships. Sexuality and romantic leanings were both spectra, he was aware; but the internet, or the denizens therein, seemed to have attempted to define every pinpoint on the spectra with a term or series of terms. Surely, John thought, scrolling through pages, there was something that he could apply to him and Sherlock.

But, as is wont to happen when going down a rabbit hole, the search for a term that defined them both inevitably lead to a search for terms that defined them each. John was quite comfortable labelling himself a white, cis, heterosexual male, though it seemed to have some ugly connotations across the web, and it was a bit of a mouthful to say out loud. When he brought this up to Sherlock over breakfast one morning, Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at him over the edge of the newspaper.

“Congratulations, you have deduced about yourself the most patently obvious.”

“Not patently obvious to everyone,” John pointed out, spearing one of his kippers. He had made a large batch this morning and, though Sherlock insisted he wasn’t hungry, small pieces kept disappearing from John’s plate when he wasn’t looking. There was also more syrup on John’s plate than he remembered putting there in the first place.

As John brought his fork to his mouth, he studied Sherlock, or what he could see of him over the paper. Sherlock was, unequivocally, an attractive man; lean, with a face chiselled out of marble, piercing eyes, and a meticulous overall countenance. Definitely good-looking. It was a thought John had had before—hard not to when women (and men) on their cases went gaga over Sherlock before realizing that he was a complete and utter bastard— but, with John’s current line of research, the thought came with baggage that he had never had the nerve to unpack.

Namely that Sherlock, for all he knew, had never had a relationship or encounter that John knew of. And, there was a very Sherlockian explanation for all of that, but there could also be another. . . .

“Sherlock?”

“Mm.”

“You’re . . . not interested in people. . . .”

“Quite correct.”

“. . . because you’re—” and here, John waved a hand at him, “— _you_ , or because you’re . . . ?” he couldn’t actually bring himself to finish, not wanting to put words in Sherlock’s mouth. He needn’t have worried.

Sherlock glanced at him over the paper. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘asexual’.”

“Are you?”

Even though he was the one who had asked the question, John felt himself blushing. Sherlock, for his part, didn’t even look up from the paper. “I suppose,” he replied lazily. As if he hadn’t thought about it. As if he didn’t care.

John knew he should drop it there; but he was on a roll at the moment, and if he didn’t ask now, he’d probably never actually know. And he might be the only person in the universe that Sherlock would discuss it with. “What kind of asexual?”

Sherlock turned the page, still not looking up. In a bored (and slightly annoyed) tone, he asked: “Whatever do you mean?”

“Well . . . are you totally against anything sexual, or just sex with other people?”

At this, Sherlock lowered the newspaper and looked squarely at John over the edge. His expression was oddly patient. “You mean, ‘Do I masturbate?’”

Despite himself, John felt a blush creep up his neck. He _had_ been asking whether or not Sherlock had any kind of sex drive, but this question got at the same issue. “Erm, yes.”

Sherlock considered him for a moment, blue-grey eyes nearly unreadable. (John thought, for a moment, that he detected a spark of mirth there, but it was gone before he could examine it more closely.) Then, Sherlock turned his attention back to the paper.

“On occasion, yes. I am certainly not as prolific as you.”

Right. John knew that, after several years of living together, after everything they had been through, there was no way that Sherlock was not familiar with _all_ of John’s habits, even his masturbatory ones. He was sure that Sherlock was completely aware of each time John did, though he generally considerate (or careless) enough to not deduce it to John’s face. This was actually one of the few times he had ever mentioned it, and it was not derisive, but still somewhat embarrassing. If John had decent self-preservation instincts when it came to Sherlock, he would have, again, dropped the conversation there; but his own curiosity was a killing force, apparently, not to be denied. He found himself blurting:

“What do you think about?”

“What do I think about what?”

John blushed harder. “Stop being obtuse. What do you think about when you—” He made a vague hand gesture.

“Masturbate?”

Sherlock’s precise and deliberate enunciation made John grimace. Why did that word have to sound so bloody awkward? “Yes! Most people think of… well, other people. Sexy scenarios. But you have no interest. So, what do you think about— _not_ in detail,” he said, holding up his hand in panic as Sherlock lowered the paper incredulously. Lord, he did _not_ want to know. “Just— in general?”

In a slow and deliberate manner, Sherlock folded the paper and set it on the table. He picked up his Bart’s mug with both hands, and took a purposeful drink of his coffee. He then looked at John over the rim of the mug, which hid his mouth as he locuted in the most exquisite deadpan:

“Oh, the usual. Experiments. Murder.” 

The silence that followed that statement set upon the kitchen so swiftly, it was as if someone had turned down the volume. It seemed that even the birds outside stopped their squawking momentarily.

Sherlock continued to watch John. He had drawn the coffee mug away from his mouth, but the sight of it gave no further clues as to Sherlock’s inner machinations. He looked as cerebral and bilious as ever.

John struggled to relocate his tongue, which seemed to have jumped down his throat in panic. This was ridiculous. Sherlock had to be taking the piss. He’d said outrageous things like that before, just to make John laugh. So, John forced one out now, manufacturing levity and saying, “Oh, right, you’re joking.”

Sherlock continued to stare, his gaze utterly reptilian.

John felt the colour drain from his own face. “You’re _not_ joking. . . .”

More ineffable staring

“You’re joking?” he asked weakly.

Seeming to grow bored with John’s fumbling, Sherlock pushed back his chair and stood, taking his mug of coffee with him as he exited the kitchen. As John sat at the kitchen table, stewing in his own embarrassment and horror, he heard Sherlock set down the mug, and then the sound of him picking up his violin. A bow was drawn experimentally over strings once, twice.

Thinking that they had reached the abrupt end of the conversation, John had put his hand over his mouth and was staring at where Sherlock had been sitting, contemplating his own self-preservation instincts. He nearly jumped when Sherlock called from the other room, over the sound of a plaintive g minor scale:

“Have you come up with a term yet?”

The question caught John off guard. Truth be told, he had gotten side-tracked by terminology to define their individual . . . well, beings that he somewhat neglected his original search. “Bromance?” he hazarded.

A derisive scoff from the other room. “That is the _best_ you could come up with?”

John blushed. “Uh, no. But seemed the most obvious?”

Sherlock suddenly poked his head back into the kitchen—possibly just so that John could bear the full brunt of his baleful expression. “It sounds cinematic.”

“You don’t like it.”

Sherlock gave an eyeroll that was fonder than it appeared at first glance, and ducked back into the living room, calling over his shoulder: “As I stated previously, I don’t care. But if we could refrain from further dissecting my sexuality, or lack thereof, in our _bromance_ , I would be most grateful. And, if you’re really that curious, go ask Mycroft; he seems to think that he has my psyche inventoried well enough.”

Instead of trying to unpack that, John simply replied “Ah, _no,_ ”, stood up and took his dish to the sink. He did the washing up whilst Sherlock launched into a violin sonata that John recognized as a favourite of his by melody, though not by name. 


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know fuck all about rugby, I am sorry.

So, _bromance_ was out. That was fine with John. It felt like a throwaway term, anway—more flippant than was desirous and, upon further reading, seemed (in some contexts) to have similar connotations as _gal pals_ , a term that Harry had thoroughly disabused him of many years hence.

John considered simply the term _mates._ It held all the connotations of friendship, but was casual. _This is my best mate._ Seemed rather brotherly, almost. That was, until Greg had pointed out:

“True. But someone could easily escalate that to mean _life mate_ or _soul mate_ , or some other such rubbish. You know that Kitty Riley would go there in an instant.”

John considered this, sipping from his pint of Stella. Greg wasn’t wrong. Though John didn’t necessarily think the idea of soul mates was rubbish, that was a can of existential worms he was not prepare to open, and he certainly didn’t need the term applied to him and Sherlock. 

“I don’t think Sherlock believes in souls,” he said by way of reply. “You know. He’s a scientist and all that.”

Greg nodded sagely, his eyes drifting to the screen where the Northampton Saints were playing the Leicester Tigers. Though Greg had been keeping to their conversation, he had also been sneaking glances at the telly—which was, honestly, reassuring. John hadn’t been too sure how Greg would react when John brought up his conundrum, but he needn’t have worried. In his typical fashion, Greg had raised his eyebrows in slight surprise, but otherwise nodded and supplied opinions where necessary and without mean judgement. The whole affair concerned him little enough that he took to cheering whenever Northampton scored, before returning to their conversation.

“I don’t see why you need to name it,” Greg said somewhat distractedly, watching a ruck on the screen. “People are gonna think what they want. They already do.”

“That’s the entire point. People make all sorts of assumptions and it’s just . . . not _true_.”

“What _is_ true? Do you even know? Maybe instead of defining it for other people, you ought to define it for yourself. Assuming _you_ need a definition.”

“Sherlock certainly doesn’t. He couldn’t give a flying one.”

“Seems like the right attitude to take, in my opinion—fuck yes!”

After that, John had let the conversation go and joined Greg in enjoying the game. He still wasn’t satisfied, but it was pointless to stew over just now, when there was easier conversation to be had and a close match to watch.

In fact, John managed to put the issue more-or-less on the backburner for several days. A new case had come up, which helped immensely: a string of murders, done in pairs, all the victims couples, and linked by seemingly nothing. Sherlock was all in a frenzy over it, spending all night in the morgue with the bodies (and Molly), running experiments in both the lab at Bart’s and at their kitchen table, and in general having a grand time. John, as per usual, got sucked into the imbroglio, was more than happy to come along, really. But, as it happened, the last two couples that were murdered were gay; this, somehow, heightened the scrutiny of all involved on John and Sherlock, and John once again began to research and re-evaluate. 

“Oh, we’re not a couple,” he found himself saying yet again, this time to the mother of one of the victims. He shouldn’t have said anything—the woman was in utter distress and had thought it sweet that John “and his boyfriend” were so invested in solving this case, which she mistook to be a hate crime against homosexuality. It wasn’t— the previous three couples had been heterosexual— but John really should have just kept his mouth shut, because the woman looked rather embarrassed and crestfallen all at once, and had dissolved into tears again, precluding any further questioning.

He was thinking about this interaction, and his latest reading into homosocial relationships, whilst he and Sherlock were pressed together in what might have been kindly called a broom closet in a nearly empty warehouse. Since they were technically breaking-and-entering, Sherlock had grabbed John by the hand and pulled him into the nearest door as soon as he heard the footsteps of the night watchman. They were standing chest-to-chest, Sherlock’s arms practically wrapped around John in a way that wasn’t in the least off-putting and, really, it was all par for the course for them.

They had been standing in the closet for several minutes, waiting for all signs and sounds of the watchman to fade, when John found himself whispering doubtfully:

“I suppose we could always describe ourselves as ‘partners in crime’—”

To which Sherlock made a face like he was simultaneously trying not to grin _and_ had just swallowed a mouthful of lemon juice, and promptly shoved a hand over John’s mouth to keep him quiet. So, John nixed that one.

* * *

The case was solved within a matter of days. It was done up in dramatic form, with Sherlock and John arriving just in time at a crime scene-to-be. It looked like it would have been a right fucking mess: the murderer, one Andrew Hollingsworth, was using a basement in an abandoned apartment building, where he’d set up gurneys and a barrage of medical equipment. The victims were laying on the gurneys, out cold, and Hollingsworth was about to cut into the first when John and Sherlock arrived. John promptly levelled his Sig Sauer at the man, whilst Sherlock cuffed him. It had then been left to John to see to the victims, relief and a second wave of adrenaline washing over him when he found that both of them had strong, steady pulses.

He had looked up then from the second victim to see Sherlock, who had forced the murderer to his knees, staring at him. It was a look such that John had seen before, almost never directly; he tended to catch it in his periphery, presumably when Sherlock though he wasn’t paying attention. Only once or twice had he glimpsed it before, yet here it was again: a look completely devoid of any pretence, open, raw, joyful, and completely transfixed. As if John were something amazing.

It was an expression that John knew he himself wore often, when looking at Sherlock. To see it reflected back to him was too powerful for words.

_How_ , he thought to himself, _am I ever going to come up with a word that describes this?_


	4. IV

The thought stayed with him for some time, as did the ghost of the feeling. That overwhelming rush of sensation in the heat of the moment, which faded into a quiet sense of comfort once they were back at the flat. The strange, easy feeling which John now recognized as utter contentment when he and Sherlock were simply sitting in the same room. It felt familiar to John.

It felt, unnervingly, a lot like love.

There were several articles he had come across in his earlier Google searches that he had, originally, cast aside, thinking them non-applicable and uninteresting. However, he returned to them anew with something akin to trepidation.

He had not been overly surprised to learn that, like sexual orientation, romantic orientation was a rather broad spectrum. However, he did have trouble imagining romantic attachment without, or incongruent to, sexual preference.

John wasn’t gay—sexually speaking, at least. He was fairly certain of that. He had wanked with an army buddy once, but it had done little for him. All of his sexual fantasies revolved around women, and the one time he had deliberately thought about a man during a wank, he hadn’t . . . well, he hadn’t been able to stay focused. It wasn’t that he found it repulsive. John was self-assured enough that he could aesthetically appreciate a fine male figure (exhibit A: Sherlock), but . . . when it came to sex, that just wasn’t what he went in for.

But he always assumed—possibly, up until this very moment—that, because he was only sexually attracted to women, he was therefore also only _romantically_ inclined towards women. However, the notion that it was possible, and not really all that uncommon, for a “straight” person to have romantic feelings for someone of the same gender . . . well, it gave John a lot to think about. A good deal of self-reflection was in order.

He found himself in such a state of deep reflection several days after this new revelation, sitting on the couch and mindlessly flipping through crap telly. Sherlock was also on the couch, laying length-wise and typing on his computer, his knees bent and feet tucked up under John’s thigh. This position was nothing new: the couch was comfy but not overly long and Sherlock, being overly tall and fond of lounging, often butted up against John’s space in various ways. They had passed many a case-free evening in such a position. Still, John felt his awareness of their proximity—so easy and (for lack of a better descriptor) _domestic_ — immeasurably heightened. He was both pleased and disturbed when, with complete insouciance, Sherlock stretched one of his legs over John’s knees in an almost possessive manner. This, too, was not entirely unusual, nor was John placing his free hand over Sherlock’s socked ankle whilst his other clicked the remote.

But it did occur to John how, perhaps, _unusual_ this might be for anyone else who was _not_ romantically involved. And he was staring at the TV listlessly, contemplating this, when Sherlock piped up:

“You are thinking rather loudly. It’s making it difficult to concentrate.”

John clicked to the next channel. A reporter in a bright yellow dress was standing in a torrential gale trying to make the most of it.

“I’ve been wondering.”

Sherlock grunted, which translated to. _About?_

“Have you ever been in love?”

That was absolutely _not_ what John had meant to say, and it seemed to catch Sherlock off-guard as well. He didn’t stiffen, or give any indication that he was uncomfortable; but he did stop typing, which told John that he had Sherlock’s full attention.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. John was even more aware of his hand resting casually on Sherlock’s ankle.

Carefully, with a measured voice, Sherlock finally replied, “I don’t think that I have ever felt grand, sweeping romantic devotion to someone, if that is what you are asking.” He paused here, his voice growing quieter. “Of other kinds of love, perhaps.” He paused again. “I think I loved Victor.”

John couldn’t help but give a quiet chuckle at that, which caused Sherlock to shift until John squeezed his ankle reassuringly. “Puppy love,” John said softly.

“Yes.” There was a tilt to Sherlock’s voice that suggested he was frowning.

“Nothing else?”

The pregnant pause that followed this question seemed to stretch infinitely, and John suddenly felt as though he was in over his head. Sherlock knew him better than anyone—and, at long last, he felt he could say the reverse as well. He _knew_ Sherlock, knew him more profoundly than he had ever known another human. It often felt that there were no secrets between them, but this conversation was causing John to realize that there were, perhaps, boundaries that they had not yet pushed with each other, places in each other’s minds that they had not explored. Were they ready for such a thing?

Before he could think better of it, John blurted: “I feel like I’m trampling over ground that needs to be tread softly.”

This, thankfully, dissolved some of the tension in the room and caused Sherlock to snort. “Too right.” A thoughtful pause. “And yet, here we are.”

John cleared his throat. “But, no need to tread further if you’d rather not.”

He looked over at Sherlock then, who was staring at him intently over the screen of the laptop. His pale face and crystalline eyes were eerily illuminated by the blue of the screen; it should have made his expression more intense, but there was a softness about his gaze that couldn’t be described.

“Perhaps, another time.”

John swallowed, then nodded. He turned his gaze, but not his attention, back to the screen. “Sure.”

After a few seconds, Sherlock began typing again, and the sound lulled John into the sense of ease that had previously enveloped them. He had just landed on a crime docu when something made him ask.

“Why do you hate all my girlfriends?”

Sherlock clicked around whatever page or document he was perusing and answered distractedly. “I don’t hate them, I simply find them annoying.”

“Because you think they’re too simple.”

“Not in all cases. Some of them were very bright. I simply dislike having to compete for your time and attention. I find everything much more pleasant and efficient if you aren’t distracted.”

The words were said with such a matter-of-fact tone that John couldn’t help the bark of a laugh that escaped him. Sherlock stopped briefly to look over at John a grin before returning to his work.

“You arsehole.”

“That’s _Consulting_ Arsehole, to you. Now shut up so I can work.”

And John did, turning the subtitles on for the crime docu and settling in. At some point, Sherlock removed his leg from John’s lap and put it back under his thigh, and it was not a rebuff, but a reassurance. Later in the evening, as part two of the show was ramping up, Sherlock closed his laptop and put it aside. He asked John to turn up the volume so that he could abuse the show properly, and rearranged himself to spend the rest of the evening with his head on John’s shoulder, and then on John’s left thigh.

Later, as they were both (respectively) going to bed, John looked up on his phone a term that he had read several days ago: _queerplatonic._

He can’t speak for Sherlock but, to him, this definition felt fitting in its ambiguity. However, he admitted to himself as he climbed into bed, he doubted that the term would do much to clear up their public perception. And he definitely wouldn’t be using it within earshot of New Scotland Yard.


	5. V

However, whilst DI Lestrade definitely fell into the category of NSY, Greg the drinking buddy was fair game, and John found himself bringing up his latest predicament over pints a week later.

He didn’t _mean_ to be burdening Greg with all this. He and Sherlock were stuck in the middle of a case that didn’t seem to be going anywhere and Sherlock was being almost insufferably moody: playing long, wandering pieces on the violin and running experiments at all hours in the kitchen. The experiments were fairly contained, and the music was beautiful (as per), but there was only so much John could reasonably take of Sherlock’s sulking. Especially since he couldn’t _do_ anything about it.

So, he’d phoned Greg and suggested they meet up at a new pub that opened up just four blocks from Baker Street.

Greg had been there when John arrived, and had a pint waiting for him. They talked casually for the first hour, Greg bemoaning one of the new sergeants that was added to his staff and John, in turn, complaining about Sherlock. It was probably a bad foot to start off on, because talking about Sherlock just opened up the door to . . . well, talking _more_ about Sherlock. And everything else. And, by the time they were finishing their second pint, John was spilling to Greg this “new” _development._

“I do love Sherlock,” he said, and he wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t instantly regret saying it, and he felt a blush rise immediately to his cheeks. He should stop now. Just take it back and change the subject.

But he’d known this for . . . well, for a while now, and god damnit, he had to explain this to someone. Greg was a mate, and a good listener, and had so far taken everything John had told him with surprising aplomb. “He’s a fucking prat, but I love him. I’m just don’t know that I’m _in love_ with him, you know?”

“Tha’s fine. You don’t ‘ave to be. Being in love’s overrated,” Greg slurred, though just slightly. “But even if you were, iss your fucking business. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

“Well, if I ever got another girlfriend, it would be their business too. But maybe that’s a big If.”

“I’m sure there’s a bird out there who doesn’t mind that you’re—what was it— _queerplatonic life partners_ with your flat mate,” Greg said cheekily.

John punched him in the shoulder, but Greg just laughed.

“Person’lly,” Greg said after they had settled back into their seats, “I find that love is like an orgasm.”

John spluttered into the sip of beer he was taking and Greg thumped him on the back unconcernedly, continuing: “If you’re not sure that it’s happened, it definitely hasn’t. As far as love goes, the only uncertainty comes from being afraid to admit it or do something about it.”

Once John stopped coughing, he stared into his beer and sighed, somewhat pathetically. “Yeah, right.”

Greg looked at him sidelong. “Or, _not_ do something about it, as some cases would have it. Maybe nothing needs to be done. No change necessary.”

John sighed again and shook his head. “I don’t even know.”

Greg hummed to himself and downed the rest of his beer, setting the glass with a _clunk_ on the bar. “What d’you say we change the subject and have another?” He was already signaling the bartender.

John nodded with relief. “God, please.”

* * *

When John stumbled home that evening (that last pint had been a doozy), Sherlock was (of course) still up, seated at the kitchen table and bent over his dissection microscope. He was dressed in grey wool pajamas and his blue silk dressing gown, looking rumpled and sleep deprived. John leaned (read: sagged) against the doorway, just watching him. It took several minutes before Sherlock looked up. There was a wrinkle between his eyes that smoothed out at he gazed at John, taking him in.

“Lestrade, I presume?”

John nodded. “Yep. Says hi.”

Sherlock continued to watch John watch him, and for several long moments, neither of them said anything. Finally, it was Sherlock who broke.

“What is it?”

John shook his head, smiling slightly. “Nothing.”

Sherlock frowned and, surprising John, stood up from the table. He walked over to where John was leaning and didn’t stop until he was right in John’s space. The wrinkle from earlier made a reappearance and, this close up, John could see clearly the dark circles forming under Sherlock’s eyes. But the eyes themselves were clear and alert, and he surveyed John intently.

“You’re drunk.”

“Tipsy,” John corrected.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but John, in his dru— _tipsy_ state, thought he could detect a certain amount of affection there.

“You should sleep.”

John gave a slight nod. “So should you.”

He expected Sherlock to scoff, maybe roll his eyes and turn away; but, instead, Sherlock merely shrugged one dressing gown-clad shoulder. “Perhaps.”

And, maybe it was because he was tipsy, or maybe it was because he was just so used to being able to say _anything_ to Sherlock, but John found himself blurting: “I still don’t know what to call us.”

Sherlock blinked, an odd mix of weariness and surprise flitting across his features. He crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head. “It’s still bothering you.”

“A bit, yeah.”

“I continue to be baffled as to why you care what other people think.”

John sighed. He suddenly felt very heavy, just thinking about it. “You know, I’m starting to be baffled myself.” He brought a hand up and ran it once over his face. The force of four beers had hit him in full: his head was beginning to spin a bit, and he was bloody tired. “Fuck.”

Sherlock watched John assess his own intoxicated state without a trace of annoyance—which was strange, but becoming less so as time wore on. His voice, when he spoke next, was not necessarily gentle, but it lacked Sherlock’s usual stringency.

“You should sleep.”

John raised an eyebrow. It was unlike Sherlock to repeat himself.

“I’ll go to bed if you will.”

Instead of looking annoyed at being coerced, Sherlock considered him thoughtfully. And it felt good to be at the center of Sherlock’s attention, to have the whole of his consideration, even for something so trivial.

John was just beginning to contemplate how pathetic that seemed when Sherlock, with a shrug and lassiez-faire that was almost shocking, said, “All right, then.” He gestured to the hallway leading to the stairs. “After you.”

With some bemusement, John made his way up the stairs leaning heavily on the bannister, Sherlock following behind. He said nothing, not even to chide the obvious listing in John’s climb or the slow clumsiness of his ascent. When John reached the top of the stairs, he waited for Sherlock to climb the last few steps for reasons unknown to himself.

Sherlock met his gaze as he reached the top of the stairs. He quirked an eyebrow, and John grinned sheepishly.

“G’night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned to his bedroom, his “Good night, John” fonder than John ever remembered hearing.

* * *

The next morning, John awoke with what he might call a very wee, very insignificant hangover. He groaned as he turned over, mostly for the sake of groaning. He was more than a little surprised to find a tall glass of water and paracetamol on his bedside table.

When he came downstairs a few minutes later, dressed in his cosiest, oatmeal-coloured jumper (the one that Sherlock occasionally stole when it was especially cold), he was met with the sounds and smells of breakfast being prepared. He found Sherlock in the kitchen, scrambling eggs and making toast and tea. John felt his eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. Sherlock cooking wasn’t an _unheard of_ occurrence, but it happened rarely enough that John could name every instance.

“Morning,” John said as he entered the kitchen. He stood next to the kitchen table, suddenly unsure if he should sit down.

Sherlock kept his attention on the eggs, but offered his own “morning” in response. Sherlock was still dressed for bed, his white undershirt rumpled and his blue dressing gown hanging off his narrow frame. His hair was wild, curls spilling everywhere. He was barefoot.

Sherlock put on such a front for the rest of the world. He seldom presented himself without a full suit of armour (minus that one trip to Buckingham Palace). John always felt oddly privileged to see Sherlock like this: unadorned, unconcerned. Content.

The kettle went off and John found himself walking over to remove it from the flame. He saw that Sherlock had already put out two cups with tea bags, and so John poured the hot water and took the cups to the table. He got jam and milk from the refrigerator and set them at the table and forks from the cutlery drawer. Only then did he sit down himself.

Sherlock followed shortly, carrying two plates with scrambled eggs and toast. He set the plate with substantially more eggs before John and then sat down to his own plate.

John picked up his fork, hesitating briefly before stabbing into the eggs. He began eating quietly, watching as Sherlock doctored up a cup of tea with milk and a teaspoon of sugar. It was only when he was done stirring and bringing the tea to his lips that Sherlock finally looked over at John.

John paused in his eating. Sherlock’s gaze was pensive, evaluating. He looked like he might be about to say something. John set his fork down, feeling his heartbeat pick up a few ticks.

After a moment, Sherlock put his cup down without drinking from it. Quietly and evenly, as if he had given the words a lot of thought, Sherlock said:

“I don’t know if it helps you to hear this again, but I will reiterate: _I_ am not bothered by what other people think of us. As far as I’m concerned, we are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and, whatever that means, the rest of the world can bugger off.”

John blinked in surprise. Sherlock brought his tea back to his mouth and took a soundless sip. He continued to watch John with the same frank blue gaze, nearly unblinking. It would have been unnerving, if not for the fact that . . . well, it was Sherlock. And, for John, Sherlock’s intense stare was not the threat that most people perceived. It was. . . .

Comforting. To know that he had Sherlock’s attention entirely. To know that Sherlock was, in a rare move, content to remain silent, interested to hear what John might say next. It was a courtesy—no, not a courtesy. It was a gift Sherlock gave almost no one.

No one, but John.

_I do love this man,_ John thought. _And I think he might love me, too._

John cleared his throat, suddenly, feeling something warm settle in his chest. He blinked, breaking Sherlock’s intense gave and looking back down at his eggs. He took up his fork again, unable to help the smile that curled around his lips.

“Yeah. All right.”

And, with that, any tension that had lingered in the air dissipated, and it was like any other morning at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock took another drink from his tea before pulling apart the paper and handing John the sports section. They finished their breakfast mostly in silence, Sherlock occasionally piping up to ridicule a political figure or two. Once they were both done with breakfast, Sherlock left the table and wandered into the living room. As John dutifully cleared away their plates and began the washing up, he heard the sound of a violin being tuned, and soon after the first slow notes of one of the few pieces Sherlock had taught him to recognize: Elgar’s _Salut d’amour._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Except there will be one more wee chapter after this :)


	6. +1

_Sherlock._

The thought was clear, even while the sights and sounds surrounding John were not. His vision was unfocused, dizzying. He could see the flashing lights of NSY, the large white outline of an ambulance. He could hear sirens, but they seemed to be underwater. Someone was accosting him, trying to talk to him, but—

_Sherlock._

They were opening the back door of the ambulance, two paramedics hoisting in a gurney. A body on the gurney. A body strapped down, with bandages covering one of its arms, its side, an oxygen mask going over it’s face—

“Sherlock!”

John tore himself away from the NSY member trying to call him. He sprinted over to where the paramedics were loading up, one climbing in the back and about to close the doors—

“Wait!” John yelled, possibly too loudly, but he didn’t care. “I’m coming with you.”

The paramedic shook her head, holding up a hand against John. “Sorry, I can’t—”

“He’s my _partner_ ,” John said, authoritatively, even angrily, giving emphasis to the word, “and I’m going with him.”

The paramedic gave John a significant look, which then passed briefly over to the prone form of Sherlock, face hidden by an oxygen mask. After a moment of hesitation, she said, “Fine, get in.”

John clambered into the cramped ambulance, relieved, trying to stay out of the paramedic’s way as she got Sherlock’s vitals, applied pressure to the wound at his side, but still _I’m a doctor,_ and _let me help_ , and she placed John’s hands where they needed to be and went about the rest of her work while John listened to the sounds of equipment beeping, the sirens wailing, watching the pale, pale, too pale face of Sherlock as they raced for the hospital. . . . .

* * *

Two days later, John entered the inpatient ward of Bart’s hospital. He had a messenger bag with Sherlock’s laptop and several books, and a handful of flowers— _Myosotis,_ forget-me-nots. Sherlock _might_ show gratitude for the first, but would definitely be disdainful for the second. He would appreciate both, though, John knew.

There was security detail from NSY posted outside Sherlock’s hospital room, and he nodded and stepped aside as John approached. John had practically lived in that room for the first twenty-four hours, and had made damn well sure that he was allowed back without question.

When he entered, Sherlock was laid back on the bed. As John approached, Sherlock’s closed eyelids flickered. And, as John sat down, they finally cracked open, the blue of them appearing almost too bright in the harsh hospital lighting. Sherlock licked his lips.

“John.”

His voice was scratchy and dry. John got the cup of water and straw from Sherlock’s bedside and, once Sherlock had raised his bed to a gently reclining position, John helped Sherlock drink some of the water.

“How are you feeling?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “ _Spectacular_.” His eyes drifted from John’s face, towards the blue flowers on the bedside table. A dark brow rose. “Flowers?”

“They are standard fare for stab wound victims.”

“I see.”

John sat back in the visitor’s chair, watching Sherlock. “What do you remember?”

Sherlock shook his head. John could see the drugs still clouding his mental faculties, and Sherlock’s annoyance at them. “Not much. Gallery. Chase. Cezanne painting. Pain in my abdomen.” He brought a hand up and placed his fingers gently on the edge of the gauze. He looked up at John. “Bad?” he questioned.

John couldn’t help the smile, shaking his head. “No—well, yes, but no. It was a deep wound, but didn’t hit any vital organs. It looked terrifying, though, in the ambulance. Thought you were going to bleed out.”

“So, you _were_ there.” A flicker of memory passed across Sherlock’s face.

“I was. I made them let me come with you.” John licked his lips, glancing back at the entrance where the NSY guard was. “I, uh, may have told the paramedic that we were . . .”

Sherlock waited.

“That I, erm,” John blushed. Fuck it. “I may have implied that we were . . . partners.”

Sherlock’s face didn’t change, save for the slight quirk at the corner of his pale mouth. “Partners?” The weight of the word-- and how John had used it-- was not lost on him. He, too, glanced towards the guard at the door. “My, my. What will Scotland Yard say?”

“They already think we’re dating.”

“Yes, but now you’ve given them concrete proof. You might as well buy me a ring.”

John frowned, his blush deepening. “What else was I supposed to say? I was scared they weren’t going to let me come with you.”

Sherlock considered him for a moment, eyes twinkling. Then:

“You could have just told them I’m your passionate frie—”

“Oh, fuck off.”


End file.
